Shadow of the Wolf

Summary

It is 1943 and the battle of the Atlantic is being ferociously contested by the Allies and Hitler's Nazi Germany. In the storm-lashed waters off the north coast of Scotland a German commando group lands on the remote shores of North Cape Island. Bruno Schafer has personal orders from Admiral Dönitz to find a missing U boat captain who holds the secrets to Britain's new centimetric radar. The islanders, remnants of a once thriving whaling community, know of the existence of the submarine commander from a pre-war association but deny that existence. Schafer knows they are lying and his search for the secrets to Britain's new weapon unravels a patchwork of intrigue, guilt and shame. In a shattering race against time all that stands between success and failure for Schafer is the tenacious courage of two young people, Billy and Ailie, and an old whale catching boat, the Nordcaper.

Related Articles

Book Preview

Shadow of the Wolf - Michael Parker

Reviews

Epilogue.

ONE

Bruno Schafer nursed his battered arm and tried to forget the pain in his foot. The wound had been hurriedly stitched by the medic on the submarine and his arm had been placed in a sling. There was nothing he could do now but wait, and pray that Kapitan Leutnant Ziegel, the commander of the stricken vessel, could bring them safely through their predicament. He glanced down at the locked safe beneath Ziegel's shelf-like desk. Inside the safe were the documents for which he had risked so much. Now it seemed fate was to deprive him, and the Reich, of the victory those papers could ultimately win.

The air in the submarine was hot and stale. Schafer had lost count of the hours since the depth charges had exploded round their stifling cocoon and sent them lurching for the dubious sanctuary of the sea bed. He opened another button on his shirt with his good hand and leaned back against the bulkhead. His chest sucked in the hot, almost breathless atmosphere and he thought of the clean, pure air of North-West Scotland from where Leutnant Ziegel had plucked him. The names of the rugged landscape appeared as sweet memories in his mind: Glen Carron, Achnasheen, the stunning beauty of Loch Maree as he journeyed to Gairloch; then Rubha Reidh and the submarine: the dull, cloying atmosphere inside the submarine.

In the control room Leutnant Ziegel glanced impassively at the faces around him, unconsciously measuring the depth of fear stippled in their pale features. A bead of sweat broke free and trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away and immediately became aware of his own fear as his trembling finger touched his flesh.

He mopped his brow, dabbing carefully with a silk handkerchief. The movement attracted glances from some of the men. He lowered his arm almost apologetically. Somebody coughed. The noise rattled round the control room, startling in its loudness and concussive to their finely wound senses. Ziegel closed his eyes and leaned against the periscope column for support.

Their situation was classic and therefore its outcome more or less predictable and inevitable. They were unable to fight so they would have to surface and surrender, unless Ziegel's counterpart on the surface chose otherwise. If he could convince the Royal Navy that the depth charges had done their work, he knew that he would live to fight another day. The word 'surrender' rankled many U-boat commanders of the supremely confident and lethal Nazi wolf packs, but Ziegel knew he would eventually have to concede defeat and surrender because he owed it to his crew; he owed them a chance. For the moment however, even the smallest moment, he was gambling their lives against the chance that the Royal Navy would eventually consider them dead and leave the area.

Leutnant Ziegel had been caught at that moment when a U-boat is most vulnerable: he had surfaced to charge his batteries when the corvette attacked. Their own radar had failed to pick up the approaching ship and their lookout had not seen it because of the poor visibility until it had been too late. The blaring claxons and the bellowed command ‘Dive! Dive! Dive’ swept through the submarine like a banshee from Hell. But the depth charges had caught them as the U-boat dived and the results had been calamitous: one man was dead and three injured, including the civilian Schafer they had picked up from the Scottish coast.

Extensive damage in the forward torpedo room meant that defensively they were dead meat. If the corvette that was now searching hungrily for them was to give up, they might limp back to Germany to deliver Schafer and his secrets. It would have been a stunning coup for Germany; those papers that Schafer had in his possession presented the Reich with a guarantee of overall victory in the battle of the Atlantic. But Ziegel was a realist; he knew in his bones that the corvette would remain on station and that his fate and that of his crew was sealed.

A noise from one of the alleyways leading from the control room disturbed his thoughts. A footfall, barely heard fell softly against the steel floor and a tired, strained face appeared at the door.

Ziegel was alarmed by Schafer’s unannounced appearance. Movement on a submarine at moments like this could be disastrous. It was forbidden. He frowned deeply to signal his absolute disapproval, but something in Schafer's eyes and the sudden lifting of his jaw warned him that his appearance at the control room door was not because of some frivolous caprice, but something that carried significant importance.

A tired, weary voice tumbled loosely from Schafer's lips. ‘Leutnant Ziegel, I must speak with you.’

There was an ominous tone in the-man's voice, presaging an urgency that normally would have required some effort, but in the stale atmosphere talk and effort were at a premium. It drained all natural resources and added to the dangerously high carbon dioxide level in the submarine's air.

Ziegel looked towards his first officer who simply nodded, accepting control as his commander walked away from the periscope and left the control room. Schafer turned and followed the captain the few paces to his cabin. Ziegel pulled the heavy curtain across the doorway and sat gratefully on the small seat that folded down from the bulkhead. He studied the man's lean, cadaverous features now etched with the pain of near defeat. The pale, handsome face had mellowed around the once fierce, piercing blue eyes,

‘What is it Schafer?’ he asked without preamble.

Schafer was normally able to cope with stress and extreme mental pressure, but in the alien environment of the submarine his tolerance was reaching its limit. His face was ashen from the debilitating effect of his wound and his hands were trembling slightly. Ziegel recognised the signs of shock and wondered how Schafer would cope if they were unable to surface.

‘Leutnant Ziegel,’ Schafer started. ‘The reason you were ordered to pick me up was not revealed to you. Am I correct?’

Ziegel concurred. ‘That is normal procedure.’ He had picked agents up many times before, never privy to their secrets or their identities. ‘I was told only a name.’

Ziegel arched his eyebrows, moderately impressed: a captain in the Naval SA. ‘But you are engaged on clandestine work Hauptsturmführer?’

Schafer ignored the question. ‘Is there any way out of our dilemma?’ he asked unnecessarily. The pain throbbed incessantly in his foot, and his eyes closed for a moment. ‘I must get back to Germany. It is vital.’ He laid emphasis on the last word.

Ziegel simply frowned and shook his head. ‘I think for us the war is over. Soon I will have to surface. If we remain here we will all suffocate. I owe it to my crew.’

Schafer's eyes opened. ‘I understand that, but the papers I have are vital for the defence of the Reich. I must get them back to Germany.’ His chest heaved as he took in a deep breath. ‘There must be a way, Leutnant. Some way we can avoid the attentions of the British.’ Ziegel waited, having no inclination to engage in irrelevancies. Schafer's eyes slid towards the safe. If Ziegel knew, he thought to himself, it might help. He determined on a course of action that might prevail upon the man's sense of duty and stimulate his desire to act, to fight back and render to his country a service no man could hope to surpass. Schafer had to measure his words carefully, using as little energy as possible.

‘The papers I asked you to lock in your safe contain precise details, blueprints and frequencies of the centimetric radar being used by the British against our wolf packs.’

As a statement it was dour and colourless, but to Ziegel it was electrifying. He felt the muscles in his back tighten at Schafer’s admission. For months now the British had been scoring spectacular successes, against Germany's killer U-boat submarines. The German high command knew that the Allies were now able to detect submarines both on the surface and partially submerged at a distance of less than two kilometres.

The wolf pack's search receivers, used to detect approaching surface vessels and aircraft, operated on a wavelength of one-point-five metres. They were proving to be almost totally ineffective, particularly in inclement weather and at night. Ziegel reasoned that he had almost certainly been caught by the enemy's new radar as he transmitted a signal to Germany whilst partially submerged.

The effect on morale among the submarine crews had been devastating as the losses mounted. Consequently Admiral Dönitz had placed the highest priority on finding the answer to Britain's latest weapon. Ziegel felt a strange disquiet, knowing the answer lay secure just a few feet from him.

‘You are quite certain the documents are genuine?’ he asked unnecessarily. It was highly unlikely that Schafer would have risked everything to carry the papers back to Germany.

Schafer passed a trembling hand over his face, pushing his fingertips deep into his tired eyes. ‘You are free to examine those papers if you wish. I am sure you will be satisfied they are what Admiral Dönitz has been praying for.’

‘It will not be necessary,’ Ziegel told him. ‘My orders to pick you up had a high classification: the highest in fact. I know you are important, as are the papers.’

Schafer shook his head. ‘It is not me that is important, Leutnant, it is the information. We must get it back to Admiral Dönitz at high command.’

Ziegel said nothing because there was nothing useful he could say; their position was hopeless. He studied Schafer with compassion and a feeling of great loss. It was a feeling he had for himself, for Schafer and for all the submarine crews who might die because he was unable to act.

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ Schafer asked, his voice taut, the appeal evident in his tortured face.

Ziegel shook his head. ‘No. I either stay here on the-bottom or I surface, it is as simple as that. If I surface the British will order me to surrender. We cannot fight, it would be pointless.’ A strange look passed over his face. ‘And for all I know, the British may even decide to sink us.’ He looked upwards. ‘They are still up there, still waiting. If I try to move, they will send more depth charges down.’

Schafer's eyes wandered back to the safe. ‘You are quite sure the Royal Navy is still there?’ Ziegel nodded slowly. ‘Then why have they stopped their depth charges?’

‘They are not exactly sure where we are,’ Ziegel explained. ‘The sea bed here is very uneven. We are lying in a trough. It makes it difficult for them to detect us. But they know we are here. They will wait until our air is too foul to breathe.’ He shrugged. It was all so obvious.

Schafer seemed to cave in. He slumped on the bed, his back against the bulkhead. For a moment Ziegel felt curiously triumphant, as though scoring even a small victory was important.

Schafer looked up. ‘How close are we to land?’ he asked.

Ziegel was surprised by the question. ‘Between eight and ten kilometres I would think. Why?’

Schafer folded his arms, lifting one hand to rub negligently across the corners of his mouth. He pulled on his lip. In his mind he was weighing up the possibility of a desperate plan succeeding, clinging to the belief that there was still a flickering hope. He lowered his arms and sat forward.

‘I could do it,’ he said demonstratively. ‘With luck I could still do it.’

Ziegel wondered if the strain of living under constant threat of detection and execution coupled with his most recent and harrowing experience was having an effect on the man's power of reason.

‘We must surface,’ Schafer was saying. His eyes moved restlessly and he was becoming very excited. ‘You must surrender.’

‘One moment, Schafer,’ Ziegel started, but was interrupted.

‘No, it's quite straightforward. While you are holding the attention of the British, I will slip into the water. I will have the papers with me. When you have boarded, I will swim ashore.’

Ziegel could not help but admire the man's tenacity and courage. Even when it was clear his injuries would seriously hinder him, he still had the temerity to gamble his life against quite overwhelming odds. He shook his head. ‘It is very brave of you, Hauptsturmführer, but also very foolish. Your wounds are too severe.’ He paused and pulled a book of Admiralty charts towards him. He opened the pages until he had the chart showing the waters around Cape Wrath on the North-West tip of Scotland. For a moment he stared almost wistfully at the chart, and then he stabbed his finger at the page. ‘We are here, approximately ten kilometres south-west of North Cape Island.’ He held the chart so that Schafer could see it. ‘If I was unwise enough to let you go, and you made it, all you would have succeeded in doing is reaching a very bleak, sparsely populated island.’ He passed the book to him.

Schafer studied it carefully. North Cape Island lay mid-way between the Orkneys and Outer Hebrides. It was, as Ziegel pointed out, isolated and remote.

‘What do you know of this island, Leutnant?’ he asked. ‘Anything at all?’

Ziegel breathed in deeply. It sounded harsh in the quiet cabin. Once again that wistful look came into his eyes as he recalled happier times before the war. He nodded gently. ‘I know it very well,’ he said softly. ‘It is a normal island community. There are some sheep, goats, and other livestock. Until the outbreak of war the islanders depended on the whale for their survival, but it is unlikely they do so now. The whaling station will be defunct, I imagine. They will scratch a living from the island until the war is over. It is a pity because they were quite a flourishing community.’ He sounded reflective. ‘They are fine people: a strong Celtic stock. The name of the island is anglicised from the Norwegian, Nordcaper. It is a species of Atlantic whale.’

‘They will have boats,’ Schafer said eagerly, leaning forward..

‘Well naturally, but stealing a boat would merely signal your presence in the area.’

Schafer snapped the book shut. Ziegel was right, a boat would be missed. But it was a risk, and war was all about taking risks. ‘I have to try, Ziegel, it is my duty.’

Ziegel felt the muggy atmosphere stinging his eyes and he closed them. Images of North Cape drifted into his mind. He could see the whaling station with its broad flensing-plane angling down into the water. The steam swirling up out of the try works, dancing into a flattening wind and vanishing. Behind the station, rising up to touch the vast, empty sky was the towering Blue Whale Mountain. It dwarfed the island and gave shelter to the islanders living on the lowlands along its eastern flank.

He took the chart book from Schafer and returned it to the back of the desk. He had a choice to make. A few minutes earlier it had been simple, but now it had changed dramatically. He knew Schafer would fail, there was no question of that, and with his failure would go the secret of Britain's anti-submarine radar. It would be lost to the Reich for ever.

The phone buzzed briefly from its mounting on the bulkhead.

He picked it up and listened carefully. Then he nodded and replaced it.

‘We have very little time,’ he said to Schafer. ‘The pressure hull has been weakened. We are taking more water.’

‘That means we have to surface,’ Schafer said.

Ziegel grunted. ‘Yes, but I will not allow you to throw your life away unnecessarily.’ He drew in a deep breath. He could feel the hypertension in his body as he summoned the nerve to say it. The decision had been made. ‘I will go.’

Having said it, it sounded quite matter of fact, as though the question of who should go was not important, but that at least someone should. Now he had made his decision he felt at ease and had no qualms about going.

Schafer was astonished. A clandestine operation such as this, highly charged with danger, was not taken on lightly. He admired Ziegel's courage but not his wisdom.

‘Leutnant, that is ridiculous,’ he scoffed and threw his head back. ‘You are not trained to work as I am. You ...’

Ziegel cut him off angrily. ‘Listen! Once I have surrendered to the Royal Navy my war is over. I will not be able to fight for my country again. It shames me to think I will have been captured and rendered useless.’ He paused for a moment, letting his anger subside. ‘For many years I worked for a Norwegian whaling company. I know North Cape Island extremely well. I know the people. If I swim ashore I stand a better chance of success than you. I know where the radio transmitter is on the island. I could hide until it is safe to use it. With your codes I can signal my position and arrange a pick up.’ He paused again and lowered his head. Then he looked directly at Schafer and spoke almost in a whisper. ‘There is someone I could contact for sanctuary if my position became desperate. This person is not a sympathiser, just someone who could be coerced if necessary, no more than that.’

‘I understand,’ Schafer said. ‘But what of me?’

‘You and I will change places,’ Ziegel told him. ‘My first officer will cooperate. He will surrender on your behalf because of your injuries.’ He arched his eyebrows. ‘Concussion perhaps? I am sure you are well trained in the art of subterfuge.’

Schafer considered it most carefully and could see the risks Ziegel would be taking were not as great as his own. ‘It might work, Leutnant,’ he